Last weekend, the pueblo celebrated the fiestas of the local Virgin. (Not the summer fiestas – those were at the end of August, and not the fiestas for the patron saint – that’s next month: the Spanish are always happy to take days off work and chase bulls through the streets or set off firecrackers.) Now there is a lull in the village as the locals close up their shops to go and join the vendimia or take advantage of end-of-season offers to take their own holidays.
Usually, even if I have no ideas when I sit down to write this blog, my thoughts come together and something takes form. Today, though, I’ve been here for an hour, I’ve made several false starts and my mind is still a complete blank.
Last week, I read poet Charles Simic on the NYR blog, a piece in which he said:
I don’t know how other poets imagine their muses, but mine is an Italian cookbook
I don’t have any clear image of my muse, but I get the impression she’s gone off to join the grape harvest or something. I hope she brings some ideas back with her.